Diary of a Weapon Master
by CoreLeone
Summary: Drizzt's visions after three centuries of life have led him to the trail that will take him back to Menzoberranzan. There he hopes to find a tome written in the flowing script of his long-deceased father...
1. The Path Twice Taken

**Diary of a Weapon Master**

**Part I**

**The Visionary**

_Dedication, discipline, sound judgment, strength of character; these are the tools necessary to __craft legends. I keep and utilize these tools with greater zeal, perhaps, than I harbor with regards to the __twin swords at my sides. Yet I am constantly on the brink of destruction as a creature of the Underdark __-- particularly among my own people. The females, to be precise, do not favor the kind of ethics to which __I cling in my daily life. Still, I hold to faith that my actions and private thoughts will one day be rewarded, __perhaps by beings residing in a higher plane of existence: beings with tremendous power curbed by the __wisdom of discretion._

_Four long centuries have kissed these bones of mine thus far. I have lost none of my speed and __stamina, nor sharpness of concentration. I welcome the challenges, each and every one. The __priestesses of Lloth lay claim to a special part of me that I never fail to exhibit when one House moves __against my own. For this exceptional service, I am deemed a priceless commodity by Matron Malice. __Not so with the other females of the House. Briza Do'Urden is a prime example of one whose head I __have come to specialize in decapitating. The brutish high priestess no doubt realizes this with no small __measure of resentment. The irony of the situation is not lost on me. For I am, after all, "only male"._

_--Zaknafein Do'Urden_

* * * * *

**Chapter One: The Path Twice Taken**

Drizzt Do'Urden awoke on a bed of leaves to the song of crickets and night birds in the air. Stars peeked out alongside the crescent moon, which shed its radiance over the woodland domain like the aura of some celestial watchman. Drizzt coiled himself into a cross-legged position on the ground. His blurry vision gradually sharpened as he blinked and stared about. His traveling gear sat against the base of a tree to his right, as did his sword belt, which the drow ranger thought peculiar indeed. He arched an eyebrow as he pondered this development, wondering who would've taken his sheathed weapons and gear off his person, only to lay them somewhere nearby.

The remnants of a small campfire wafted to his keen nostrils, even as he spied the bundle of blackened sticks and smoldering ashes in the clearing just ahead and to his left. Drizzt stretched his aching muscles, then sprang forth to grab hold of his sword belt. He stood up and slid Twinkle out of its scabbard, inspecting the steel surface of the ornate scimitar. Its faint blue glow indicated no immediate threat in the vicinity.

Nevertheless, Drizzt knew that something was amiss. He could feel it tickling the hairs on the back of his neck, brushing its fingernails along his spine. The ranger strapped on his gear and sifted through a belt pouch until he produced the onyx panther figurine. Turning it over in his delicate fingers under a shaft of moonlight, the drow admired its perfect craftsmanship as he'd done on the first day he laid eyes on it. "Guenhwyvar," Drizzt murmured, as though he were still dreaming. Then he realized he had just summoned his friend from her home on the Astral Plane. He set it on the ground and waited as the gray fog materialized about the figurine, slowly solidifying into the entity of the great cat.

Even after three centuries of life, Drizzt had seen few creatures that could rival the sheer beauty and symmetry of musculature that was Guenhwyvar. His beloved friend -- indeed, the only friend he had left -- stared up at him through lambent green eyes possessed with an intelligence that transcended the boundaries of any ordinary cat. She purred. Drizzt smiled and dropped an ebon-skinned hand to scratch the fur between the panther's ears.

"Something peculiar is happening in these woods," he informed his companion. "I don't sense the presence of the moon elves, for one. In any case, I don't believe they would have disarmed me and set a campfire as if they, like me, were just passing through here."

The panther stared at him for a moment, then tossed her head about in either direction, sniffing the air. Eventually, the two of them split up to investigate. Drizzt began with the abandoned campsite, while Guen glided through the underbrush in search of other clues. Neither of them had gone very far when something disburbed the atmosphere. The great cat stiffened and wheeled about to face the direction from whence she'd come. Her ears flattened against her skull as she crouched, issuing a low growl.

Drizzt sensed the presence himself. He, too, spun about, but refrained from drawing his scimitars for the time being. Sweeping his fiery gaze over every shadow, bush and tree, he noted that the forest creatures continued their general ruckus as though nothing was out of the ordinary. Neither Drizzt nor Guenhwyvar moved an inch from where they stood. A ghost of a whisper (or was it laughter?) danced along the currents of a gentle breeze. Even with the drow's exceptional hearing, he could just barely detect the sound. Evidently, this was not the case for Guenhwyvar. The cat bounded out of the underbrush and back into the clearing, followed a split-second later by a suddenly bewildered Drizzt Do'Urden.

_What in the Nine Hells..._

The thought never flowed to completion as an even louder giggle (there was no mistaking it now!) bubbled forth. The laughter resounded from somewhere in the immediate area, growing louder and more musical with each breath. In fact, judging by the low rumble and direct gaze of Guenhwyvar, Drizzt eventually reasoned that the sound was actually emanating from _inside the tree_ where he had spotted his traveling gear and sword belt!

Seconds before the noise dissipated, it dawned on Drizzt what manner of creature could be responsible for such a phenomenon. At first, he had presumed he was being followed by someone not native to these woods. But surely the moon elves would not have stood for such disruptions in their dominion -- although the question remained as to why Drizzt had yet to sense any of them. Suddenly exasperated with this whole situation, and wanting nothing more than to carry on with his quest back into the Underdark, he snapped a scimitar out and swatted the growling panther on the rump with the flat of the blade.

"Let's go," he murmured before the cat could object. He started to turn about and resume his trek through the forest. But something immaterial caught his attention halfway through the move. It looked like the image of a woman's face, with something definitely material clenched in her teeth. Drizzt turned his full attention back to the tree, just in time to witness the dagger he normally kept hidden in one of his boots drop to the ground.

The face solidified into the visage of a beautiful creature indeed. Bronzen tresses spilled about angular cheek bones and slightly pointed ears, complete with plush mahogany lips. Eyes like pools of molten silver glittered in the fain moonlight spilling through the canopy of tree limbs overhead. The creature winked at Drizzt, then stepped fully into the clearing, revealing a physique that was every bit as attractive as the face, adorned only in a green gossamer gown.

The dark elf barely remembered his manners in time to look away from her breath-taking attributes prominently revealed through the flimsy garment. More musical laughter erupted as the creature moved closer. Guenhwyvar stopped growling, but instead positioned herself directly between the creature and Drizzt, crouching in preparation to pounce at the first sign of trouble. Drizzt looked to the cat and back to what he already understood was a dryad. "Well met," the ranger grumbled, eyeing his dropped dagger a few feet behind the exotic denizen of the woods.

A dazzling smile lit the creature's face as she dipped into a curtsy. "And a wonderfully delightful meeting it is," she chimed, making not the slightest move to return Drizzt's property to him. "My name is Serenaed," she revealed.

Drizzt nodded. He started to introduce himself, but was promptly interrupted.

"I know who you are," the dryad breathed, eyeing Drizzt appreciatively. "I know all about you, as well as where you're going next. Thanks to your gift --" she motioned to the dagger " --I know every detail of your time on the surface, including your most private thoughts and imaginings whilst you wielded that dagger. And I want you to take me with you to Menzoberranzan when you go in search of your father's chronicles."

That last statement struck Drizzt like a wooden club wielded by Pikel Bouldershoulder, one of two rugged dwarves he had met during his travels many years ago. "What?" Drizzt inquired. Even Guen stiffened at this ridiculous request. "All right, I am willing to accept the loss of a dagger, as well as your preposterous claim to know the most intimate details of my life now that it is in your possession," Drizzt scolded. "But..."

He stopped, realizing that this dryad couldn't possibly know that he was even going to Menzoberranzan, unless what she claimed was indeed the truth. His visage displayed his incredulity. "To my knowledge, dryads are not capable of such devilry," he complained, as much to himself as to Serenaed. Could she really know his dreams simply by swiping a mundane weapon of his? How else would she know about what Drizzt intended to acquire in the city of his ancestors? He had told no one about the vision except Guen, and the cat could not...

The dryad giggled softly this time, almost apologetically, as she donned a more serious look on her face. "Times have changed considerably since last you visited these woods," said she. Her features wizened as she elaborated. She told him about something referred to as the Hideous War being fought by the moon elves not far to the north against some nameless foe and its ghoulish henchmen. A spiritual darkness now spread across the land, spawning a new breed of creatures half-real and half-nightmare.

The remaining denizens of Moonwood Forest had been charged with protecting the villages and hidden keeps, but the dryads were expressly empowered to carry on in the abscence of the elvish hosts. "And because you are deemed special among my Lords," Serenaed said, "I have taken a personal interest in keeping you safe, or at least better informed, on your journey back home. Though I must say, there's not much of a home left for you to return to, by all accounts."

Drizzt started to question the validity of that statement, but suddenly remembered his stolen dagger still lying on the ground. Though he did not expect a straight answer, he asked, "Why did you feel the need to steal my property in order to know me better? Did you fear that I would refuse your company based on the dubious nature of your kind?"

Serenaed smiled gently, even as Drizzt's face burned with the sudden knowledge of the irony in his own words. "You should understand better than anyone that not every member of a particular race deserves such judgment." She turned and gestured with one hand. Drizzt's dagger flew off the ground and into the dryad's waiting grasp in the blink of an eye. The dryad then handed the weapon back to its owner. "Come," she said at length. "Your second journey into the Underdark will not be nearly as complicated if you allow me to take you as far as the entrance to the cave, at least."

Drizzt looked to Guenhwyvar for support. But the panther was already loping toward the trail. "Great," he murmured. "So much for loyalty." Then, glancing back at his new companion, the ranger motioned for her to come along. Perhaps he'd been wrong to judge this spirit of the woods prematurely. But he was going to keep a close eye on her anyway. Something did not sit right with him about her story. The whole thing sounded far too contrived for his liking. Also, protection was not something that Drizzt had required since the earlier days of his youth, much less after three centuries of life -- and to say nothing at all of requiring it from a dryad!

When he again turned to consider Guenhwyvar, he had to amend that last thought to at least include the necessity of friendship. Drizzt had always needed and appreciated his friends.


	2. The Song of Life and Death

**Chapter Two: The Song of Life and Death**

"Those are no mere wolves you hear," the dryad whispered as she and the drow crept along the path leading out of the woodland domain. Her silver eyes kept darting ahead and to the perimeters of the receding treeline, apparently in pursuit of the panther's exact location. A palpable stench (more of a tangible vibe, really) that could only derive from primal fear wafted over to Drizzt. He eyed Serenaed with an expression bordering on exasperation.

"Why are you afraid?" he asked bluntly.

"Hmm? Oh, I am not afraid for myself, but for you and Guenhwyvar."

"I have been taking care of myself for a very long time now, and Guen has been doing the same for much longer," Drizzt retorted. "You, on the other hand, do not strike me as a protector but rather someone in need of protection. Perhaps you should go back to your tree and leave me and Guen to our journey. I assure you that we can handle things from here."

"Shhh!"

Drizzt scowled as the dryad placed a finger to her lips, whipping her head sharply toward the trees due west of their position near the edge of the forest. From that direction emanated a shrill howl on the wind, and was soon answered by several others. The drow ranger recalled his time in the city of Calimport, when he and his companions had traveled by land and by sea in order to rescue their friend, Regis the halfling. There in the sewers of the city, they had done battle against what Drizzt considered to be some of the most despicable creatures in existence.

That a man would willingly give himself to such a horrid transformation as to become half-human, half-rat was a disgrace! Drizzt didn't think too highly of those who chose to take on the physical characteristics of wolves, either. In fact, he recalled a certain Harpell whose crazy dabbling in the Art had allowed him to morph into that very abomination. Although the wizard's allegiance to the Companions of the Hall went unquestioned, Drizzt had always eyed the little dog with more than a little mistrust.

So it was now that Drizzt snapped out his scimitars and scanned the few remaining trees in the area. Guenhwyvar was no doubt already posted up in the boughs somewhere farther ahead. Drizzt glanced at the dryad, whose innocent facial expressions were becoming less innocent the more he looked at her. "Whatever is out there is coming this way," he quietly informed her, indicating with his eyes that perhaps now was her last chance to seek shelter inside one of the trees.

Instead of slinking off to do just that, Serenaed straightened her posture and strode right past the drow toward the increasing sounds. "What are you about?" Drizzt whispered harshly, though he expected no response. He got none.

Serenaed kept going deeper into the shadows, until Drizzt could no longer see her, even with his considerable nightvision -- which told the experienced ranger that magic was involved here. He started to give chase, but an explosion of light so brilliant that even the sun at its zenith would be hard-pressed to match its intensity illuminated the area. Drizzt fell back and squeezed his eyes shut as he fought in vain to keep his balance, taking care not to cut himself with his own scimitars in the process.

A chorus of unseen beasts assaulted the atmosphere with howls of torment. Seconds later, the drow heard a haunting melody issuing from the general direction in which he had last seen the woodland nymph. Hers was the song of life and death, Drizzt mused. For a certain raw element crept from that fragile frame of hers -- wherever she was! -- and ignited the air with invisible bolts of energy. Drizzt heaved himself back to his feet, blades poised to strike down anything that might have slipped through the dryad's light show. His eyes fluttered open, noting that the spell was already dissipating.

The drow ranger smelled the burning carcasses of several monstrosities, while staring into the nighttime darkness of the forest once more. A deadly silence rushed in to fill the loss for words. Even the crickets and the night birds had fallen utterly quiet. Twinkle flared an angry blue as Drizzt continued his surveillance. He glanced down at the enchanted blade, then back to the general vicinity from whence he expected to see Serenaed returning. Right on cue, the dryad emerged from the deeper shadows into the moonlit clearing, her face a mystery of magical might and ancient wisdom.

Drizzt scanned the area for Guenhwyvar for but a second before a piercing roar shattered the silence. The drow caught sight of two racing shadows ahead and to the east of the elvish domain. Drizzt stared hard at the spectacle of his feline companion in pursuit of a huge wolf-like creature, perhaps the only one that had escaped the dryad's light spell.

"The cat will be fine." Drizzt whipped about, having nearly forgotten the dryad entirely. Her face remained an emotionless mask. She gestured to the south pass that would eventually lead to the mountain cave, which in turn would lead into the Underdark. "We should continue on our way before anymore surprises catch us out in the open," she advised, her voice suddenly carrying a ring of steel to it.

Without waiting for Drizzt to respond, the lovely creature moved on ahead. Drizzt scowled, torn between following the nymph, in the confidence that Guen would soon return, and joining the panther's hunt. He dearly wanted to catch this last werewolf himself. Something told him it would be to his benefit to at least question the beast -- if it could speak in its current state, or else once it returned to its original form.

The ranger sprinted off in the direction of the cat and her prey. Dryad be damned, he thought furiously. But he hadn't taken more than five steps when a bone-chilling shriek tore at the sky. Drizzt whirled about in midstride, scimitars a blur of enchanted steel the instant he spotted the ghastly figure descending from on high, like a swooping hawk that has spotted a field mouse. Serenaed's visage had transformed to that of a demon-possessed witch, complete with long claws protruding from her fingertips, eyes ablaze with crimson fires. Even her hair had changed; no longer was it the luxurious mane he had witnessed upon meeting her, but now it held the appearance of seaweed -- or was it a head full of writhing serpents? Drizzt couldn't be certain. She adjusted herself in the air before landing a couple feet away from the ranger's darting weapons.

Drizzt pressed in with a flourish, spinning and rotating his scimitars about his body like the edges of a screw. The demon-witch weaved in and out, taunting the drow at every turn, so swift and coordinated were her movements. Drizzt stopped his whirling frenzy in the twinkling of an eye, only to thrust toward the creature's heart with Icingdeath, while Twinkle batted away the flying dagger at the last instant before it pierced his throat. The drow ranger did not even pause to consider how Serenaed had managed to steal his dagger for the second time this evening, without him knowing it. Instead, he marveled at how easily the demon-witch turned his demon-slaying scimitar aside with the palm of one hand, leaned in and delivered a powerful backhand that lifted him right off his feet! The drow kept the presence of mind to turn a back flip so as not to land on his back. No sooner did his boots strike the earth again than the two furious combatants found themselves back in each other's faces. Twinkle and Icingdeath dipped and rose in a wild attempt to penetrate the creature's unorthodox defenses, darting ahead and to either side as the witch cackled with glee.

Those hands of hers were entirely too fast, Drizzt noted. Her entire body, in fact, moved with the speed and fury of a summer gale. The drow was reminded of a certain weapon master from House Baenre whose speed derived from the very bracers he now wore on his ankles. The thought inspired a new tactic.

Feinting with a double slash that would've cleaved the witch's torso in half, Drizzt reversed his momentum just when he noticed those flying hands of hers snap into position for yet another unlikely parry. The roundhouse kick caught her on the left temple, putting an abrupt halt to her laughter as she went tumbling into the weeds. Drizzt's enhanced speed enabled him to stay right with her as she fell. As soon as she tried to rise from her prone position, she got a decidedly more personal view of Icingdeath than she likely desired.

The enraged drow watched her crimson eyes travel the curved length of his scimitar until she again met his gaze. She inched a hand across the ground, apparently in search of a sharp stone to throw, but stopped immediately when Drizzt tapped the corresponding shoulder with Twinkle. "Now that the truth of your nature is exposed," the ranger growled, tracing the bronzen curve of the witch's cheek bone with Icingdeath, "you will tell me exactly what this is all about, and what has truly happened to the moon elves." He clenched his jaw muscles and adjusted Icingdeath's position to the creature's throat when he saw that she was about to spit at him.

"If you would rather die than tell the truth, I will oblige you," Drizzt snarled, feeling that primitive surge as in the old days in the wilds of the Underdark. That part of him, called the Hunter, was never really far from the surface. Always ready and waiting, like a predator crouched in the underbrush, biding its time. Drizzt barely registered his own hand forcing Twinkle's tip to pierce the witch's collar bone, invoking a sharp cry of pain, so caught up was he in the memories of his days in the world below.

Still, it wasn't until Guenhwyvar returned from her own battle and sank her canines into the witch's opposite shoulder that Serenaed started talking. A ghost of a grin danced about the corner of the Hunter's mouth as the true story came pouring out of this creature of deception like a waterfall


	3. Furious Ironies

**Chapter Three: Furious Ironies**

Drizzt and Guenhwyvar resumed their journey toward the cave entrance that would take them back into the bowels of Toril. Drizzt tried not to ponder the implications of what Serenaed had just revealed, even as he kept a lookout for more trouble along the way. Although it was not entirely out of the question that the witch had concocted a lie to save her own skin, Drizzt trusted his instincts.

Her eyes had told the truth, even if her mouth had not done so in full.

Guenhwyvar bumped against his side before trotting ahead. The ranger noted the slackness in the panther's muscles. The magical entity could not remain on the physical plane much longer, he knew. That made it all the more reason to hurry. He wanted her with him at least until he entered the cave. When he saw that Guen had gone about thirty yards, he kicked into a sprint. Enhanced by the magical bracers on his ankles, he bypassed his furry companion so suddenly that the cat spun a complete circuit, as if wondering whether some grave new danger had arrived on the scene. Once it was clear that there was not, Guenhwyvar roared a challenge to her long-time friend and accelerated to maximum speed. Drizzt gritted his teeth and pushed the capacity of the bracers beyond what he had done in many years.

The result was a shifting stalemate, with the drow edging ahead of the panther, and vice versa, every so often.

* * * * *

The demon-witch pulled herself from the weeds in which she'd fallen and had almost perished. She could not believe what had just occurred. Even with all the power her Mistress had granted her, she had just barely managed to come through the ordeal with her life -- a situation that might not endure much longer.

She felt a familiar throbbing at the core of her being, a discordant twang in the universal harmonies connected with her sould, like an iron chord of webbing to which she was permanently attached would be disturbed by the approach of its host. Something sinister was moving toward the physical plane with terrifying speed, and without any mortal wizard to provide a gateway! Serenaed's breath came in shallow puffs as the sensation increased, her crimson eyes dilating to amber as she whipped her head this way and that. A sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach told her the identity of the encroaching being long before it made its first steps through the Weave and into the mortal realm. Now the words she had spoken to Drizzt Do'Urden were a dead weight upon her breasts; the number of truths revealed outnumbering the necessary lies could prove her death sentence, after all. She panicked, thinking to take to the sky and hide among the dark clouds that had amassed in the east.

Faster than thought, a spider's leg the size of a javelin drove through her spine and burst through her rib cage, a fountain of ichor painting the night air and the grass around her. She gasped in shock, though only a faint rush of air issued from her throat. A hissing voice, as from a vivid nightmare, suffused her brain with what she realized would be the last words she would ever hear in this world.

"You should never have told the renegade drow about the fate of the moon elves," the voice rasped. "The Lycanthropic Curse is the gauntlet we need to seize the Realms by the genitalia! Now you have gone and revealed your true nature prematurely, simply because Drizzt elected to deviate from the path, when you already knew his intentions were travel straight away to find his father's tome in the land of my mother's chosen people. Drizzt would not have discovered anything from our minion, had you kept your distance from the start.

"Your life on this plane of existence is forefeit, therefore," the hissing continued in the fading consciousness of Serenaed. "The terms of your banishment will be decided by my sons when you arrive at the Blood Gates. For such is the punishment for betrayal, especially this early in the game!"

Serenaed made one last effort to scream. But the implosion of her physical body wiped out the sound before it ever surfaced. Stepping fully through the void created by her wrath between the Prime Material Plane and the six-hundredth layer of the Abyss, the Drider Princess breathed in the chill wind as though drinking from the Eternal Fountain of Lust. Eight beaming red eyes glared out from the flawless onyx that was her forehead as she studied the landscape. She could not remain for long.

Already she could feel the rising anger of the Higher Ones for having breached the gap between realities. She spat a silent curse against the name Drizzt Do'Urden. Perhaps that one was indeed blessed by the Spider Queen, Lethryl supposed. Even in death, it seemed that Lloth was having one more laugh at all the furious ironies spawned by this particularly troublesome drow. The Drider Princess narrowed all eight of her eyes, a feral grin spreading across her ebon-skinned features.

"See you soon, Drizzt," she hissed into the wind, before plunging back into the void.


	4. In the Beginning

**Part II**

**The Chronicler**

_The surface world is no stranger to sinister plots made by this coven or that. It is certainly nothing new to the world at large that a demon or two should come trudging across the Material Plane for whatever master plan it has in mind. I am not the least bit frantic about the news brought to my ears by this devil-nymph, as I am fully aware that the tongues of demons and their spawns are to be only partially heeded, if ever at all._

_So I travel back to the land of my birth, leaving behind the troubles of the surface world and entering an even darker hell. The moon elves may be plagued by a lycanthropic curse that now spreads its fingers toward the cities, but my own people are practically extinct in the world below. I have seen glimpses of the wars they have fought in my Reveries, just as I have witnessed a valuable tome that has never before come to my attention._

_My father has secretly penned a volume of the chronicles of our people, spanning from the early stages of his life to the years prior to his execution at the foul hands of Lloth's priestesses. I intend to retrieve that book, even if it means I have to fight an army of pit fiends before I ever reach the Academy! For that is where my vision places the item: in the archives of Melee-Magthere._

_Like my father before me, I was at the top of my class there. I have always believed I was a bit more unique in my way of thinking than my father. But I suppose there are fewer differences between us than I originally estimated._

_ --Drizzt Do'Urden_

* * * * *

**Chapter Four: In the Beginning**

My story begins not in the city of Menzoberranzan, as some still believe to this day. On a remote island surrounded by Lake Donigarten, my father and I spent the first two decades of my life in blissful solitude. Even now, I can hear the voice of my father reminding me always to carry my weapons once he had instructed me on how and when to use them. The fact that we were denizens of the Underdark, of course, meant that I would have to use my weapons frequently enough.

My father, Zindel, was unquestionably one of the toughest instructors in the art of combat I've ever had the pleasure of training with. I learned rapidly under his instruction, having the proper motivation through the stories he told of how wicked our own people were in general, particularly those who claimed undying fealty to the Spider Queen. My mother was said to have been destroyed because of a complete lack of faith in Lloth. Hence my father's ire was rivaled by few drow he'd ever met in battle.

It wasn't until the First House of Menzoberranzan accidentally discovered our humble abode that Zindel met his match. The blades of one Dantrag Baenre, to be exact, were the murderous tools responsible for my father's demise. On that day, I found a new level of rage. Dantrag, the weapon master of House Baenre, was leading a drow patrol by boat into the deeper caverns when he spotted me and my father feeding a herd of rothe near the bank.

When the rothe scattered, we realized there was no place to run. Jumping into the lake would've been foolish, considering the kind of monsters lurking therein. For I have seen the trails in the water left by enormous creatures with draconic fins, which peek every so often above the surface of the water, only to resubmerge an instant later. So it was that I stood and fought, even when the patrol leader's henchmen came ashore and surrounded me within a ring of drow-made steel. I was taken captive into the slave markets between Menzoberranzan and Ched Nasad. For some reason, Dantrag believed I would die a far more deserving death as a slave to some Matron Mother, or perhaps to an aboleth or a mind flayer, than he could ever dish out himself.

Personally, I thought the weapon master a coward. Even for one so young at the time, I was hardly impressed with that one's fighting technique. Something about it just struck me as far too mundane. All of his routines came as though he'd studied them in a book, with no room for improvising. He was a prisoner of his own speed, not to mention pride! In fact, if it hadn't been for his followers that day, I seriously believe that Dantrag would have fallen to my blades. As it stood, I became a slave for sale for approximately three months before I was purchased by the coins of a bullish drow priestess named Briza Do'Urden.

* * * * *

Drizzt arched a slender white brow at this revelation, as he sat in the candlelit chamber within the Academy. It had been no simple task circumventing the various races and monsters who now roamed the ruins that was once beautiful, deadly Menzoberranzan. Now that he was inside, and had found the tome precisely where his vision had revealed, he found himself totally immersed in the smooth, flowing script of Zaknafein Do'Urden.

_Dantrag?_ Drizzt pondered. How in the Nine Hells had Dantrag managed to kill the father and teacher of Zaknafein? And what was this madness about Briza, Drizzt's oldest and most hated sister, buying Zaknafein from the slave market? Drizzt scowled fiercely, but forced himself to read on in spite of his growing anger.


	5. Minor Disruptions

**Chapter Five: Minor Disruptions**

My first conflict in the slave market transpired on the very first day of my arrival. My only cage-mate was a drider that insisted its name was Sin'Deth. In such a wretched state as that, I wondered how it was even able to speak! But indeed it could, and fluently, as though it had been born half-drow, half-arachnid. This was to my way of thinking an abomination of the highest order.

I had yet to experience the full horror of the Underdark, which included the deeper atrocities of my own people. And so, within the four corners of our iron-barred prison, Sin'Deth continued my education on the various truths of drow society, which my father had not mentioned in our short time together.

But that first day of imprisonment marked the first time in my own mind that I faced and fought against a demon of the Abyss! It used two scimitars, to combat my straight blades, which was just as foreign to me as the drider itself. Up to that point, I had not known the greater potential harnessed within the curvaceous weapon known as the scimitar, although my father had told me the basics of drow weaponry from his time in the Academy – and so I knew, at least, what a scimitar was by Zindel's descriptions.

The effortless grace with which the drider countered my every attack sequence, calculated or improvised, shook me to the core. At the same time, it awakened my sensibilities to a higher level of learning and adaptation, while in the midst of combat. Even so, I could tell that the drider was merely toying with me, as would a displacer beast with a common cave rat! Sin'Deth could've killed me at any time, and we both knew it. Instead, I learned under the brutal techniques of a drow-made monstrosity to continuously improve my fighting skills. I had no choice in the matter, for I was convinced that each fight with this disgusting beast was going to be my last.

After two weeks of nothing but fighting (and me awakening from unconsciousness some time later), the creature revealed much to me; that is, once I finally agreed to address it as a fellow warrior and not a monster. It was hardly a simple matter, considering the level of ignorance I was firmly entrenched within – and still am, to a certain extent. But I eventually came around to speaking to the drider instead of drawing my weapons before the guards came to slop us each morning.

It was at that point that I discovered Sin'Deth's background. The story of his transformation at the hands of his own sisters horrified me like nothing else ever had! Overall, it was a wary acquaintance; one in which I became privy to my share of a wealth of information regarding the "glories" of Lloth and female supremacy.

* * * * *

"If there are any monsters in here, they are about to face my wrath!"

"Really, old Grumph-"

"Gromph!"

"Yes. Word is that your wrath isn't all that it's cracked up to be these days."

"If you don't learn how to control that wagging tongue of yours, you will be the first discover if there's any truth to that rumor firsthand!"

Drizzt froze where he sat. The voices echoing up the corridor sounded all too familiar. Well, _one_ of them did anyway. The other belonged to someone whom the ranger had only heard of before, even though he had once been a captive of that one's Matron Mother.

"Shh! Someone is burning a candle up ahead," issued a faint whisper that Drizzt realized belonged to Gromph Baenre, the former Archmage of Menzoberranzan. In spite of himself, Drizzt nearly chuckled at the irony of a wizard as powerful as Gromph stating something so painfully obvious. Why weren't they resorting to the silent hand code_?_ He wondered.

Arrogance, he decided an instant later, when the two unlikely companions surged through the portal of the antechamber. The ranger sighed, slid off the stool and came out from around the stone podium to greet them on their way in.

Jarlaxle did a double-take, while Gromph actually gestured through the beginnings of an offensive spell. Belatedly, the mercenary leader noticed what Gromph was doing and disrupted the wizard's casting, shaking him roughly by the shoulder.

"Drizzt? Is that you?" Jarlaxle inquired unnecessarily.

The ranger momentarily closed his lavender eyes and struggled valiantly to keep his composure under the circumstances. "Yes, it is me," he growled at length. "What are you two doing here?"

Gromph scowled at this, regarding Drizzt as one might a bug that has presumed to crawl into one's dinner plate. "That is precisely what I was going to ask _you_, rogue!"

Drizzt didn't blink as he turned his attention to the mage. "You were going to kill me first, and then ask my _corpse_ that question, you mean?"

The fuming expression that came over the face of the former Archmage was more than sufficient to Drizzt's way of thinking. He smirked as he turned his gaze back to Jarlaxle, satisfied that Gromph could not find the words to form a rebuttle.

Jarlaxle's grin revealed his own approval. With the customary tip of his ridiculous hat, he began to explain what had brought him and his cranky accomplice back to the abandoned halls of the Academy. "We are treasure-hunting," he admitted. "Certain rare items belonging to House Baenre lie dormant in these chambers, just as we have managed to find elsewhere in the city. Menzoberranzan may be in ruins now, but that does not detract from the myriad opportunities for personal gain – as I see you have returned to explore for yourself, dear Drizzt."

The ranger turned slightly to follow Jarlaxle's gaze over his shoulder toward the stone podium, whereupon lay the diary of Zaknafein and a single, burning candle. "What I am doing here is none of your business," Drizzt began grimly. "But for the fact that I know you were a close acquaintance of Zaknafein's… I am here because of a vision that I believe my father bestowed upon me many fortnights ago. His life story resides in that book. And that to me carries far more value than any 'rare item' you may hold in your possession even now."

That said, Drizzt started back toward the aforementioned tome. Gromph's next question, however, stopped him in his tracks.

"So, you were just going to come in here, read your father's diary, and somehow manage to sneak it back out of here on your way back to the surface. Did you not notice how thoroughly overrun Menzoberranzan is by enemy forces on your way in here?"

"Of _course_ I noticed," Drizzt replied, annoyed by such a foolish inquery. "I am no wizard, like yourself. How do you suppose I got here? At any rate, the city has always been overrun by enemy forces. The ones here now can only be an improvement."

Jarlaxle's laughter erupted straight from his belly, which of course incited even more of Gromph's insatiable ire. "Tell you what, old friend: why not take the book and travel back to the surface in style?"

Drizzt shot a dubious glance toward the sly mercenary leader.

"Gromph here--" Jarlaxle draped an arm over the mage's shoulder "--is taking me back by way of a transport spell. You could come along for the ride."

Drizzt's glare turned murderous the second he regarded Gromph again. The feeling was obviously mutual. "No, thank you," Drizzt declined, returning to where he'd left off in his father's book. "Just close the door on your way out, if you please."


	6. Ascendance

**Chapter Six: Ascendance**

I was awakened on the morning of the third month by an explosion of protests throughout the slave market. Cries of "Drow scum!" and "Spider-kissers!" were the common themes. Sin'Deth had been especially hostile that day, as well. I recall rising from the stone floor of my cage and edging toward the bars to see what all the commotion was for. A sinking feeling in my gut told me that I was about to become the center of attention. The drow party floated along the main avenue leading into the marketplace upon glowing driftdisks: three drow females, escorted by four males and six huge orcs serving as perimeter guards on foot.

I must admit, I was fairly impressed with the level of discipline displayed by each member of the party. Their posture and formation seemed to correspond with their black and purple uniforms, which they all wore proudly; even the orcs carrying their deathlances spoke volumes of the kind of force we'd be reckoning with if it came to combat. For some reason, I immediately envisioned myself as part of their ranks. As it turned out, that was precisely my fate. For the one called Briza was clear on what it was they had come to obtain, and for what purpose.

House Do'Urden was in need of fresh recruits, we were informed. Their current weapon master needed someone with the kind of skills he could fine-tune as a possible replacement in the foreseeable future. For it was said that, while the males under his tutelage had all shown promise of varying degrees, the Matron Mother of the Tenth House wanted their options to remain open. The weapon master was well into his sixth century now; his skills were beginning to show signs of wear, and he even walked with a noticeable limp at times. The only reason he had not already been killed, we were told, was because the champion who was to be his replacement had yet to be revealed.

Sin'Deth actually spat at the high priestess at one point, and was very near to being executed by the minotaur guards then and there, had it not been for my timely outburst: "I will join your House," I boldly proclaimed. Once I had everyone's attention, I exploded into action, drawing my weapons in the twinkling of a drow's red-glowing eye and setting them into a blur of enchanted steel before me, spinning and weaving the finely crafted blades in a mesmerizing display of skill. My booted feet danced to the silent rhythm established by the darting swords, back and forth, pivoting on one heel and then the other, leaping and lunging as I thrust my blades with unerring accuracy into the hearts of unseen foes. I rushed to the back of the cage then, propelling myself straight up the iron bars spaced just inches apart, and executed a quick somersault. No sooner had my feet touched solid ground once more than I sprang all the way across the cage to where Sin'Deth stood watching in grim approval.

The end result was the positioning of my weapons, which formed a perfect X, with the drider's exposed throat caught directly in the wedge of drow-made steel.

"All I ask in return for my services," I declared gravely, "is for the opportunity to avenge my father's death, by destroying the drow rat that killed him."

Briza had been somewhat amused by that, as well as intrigued, I could tell. I saw it in her eyes. She knew I had a lot to learn in the ways of drow society. But she could see that I was also extremely talented for one so young. "We will take him," the brutish priestess informed the Captain of the minotaur guards. "He will do nicely, I think. Very nicely indeed."

Yet, as soon as one of the guards opened the gate, Sin'Deth had to be poisoned by a crossbow dart in order to prevent him from advancing on the drow party. That was just as well. I was only glad they had chosen not to kill the creature. The drider had taught me many valuable lessons in the brief time we had spent together in that cage. For some reason, I discovered that I was actually going to miss Sin'Deth.

All those lengthy discussions, balanced by the brutal sparring sessions, were to be forever imbedded in my mind's eye. But there was no turning back from that point on. I traveled with House Do'Urden's ambassadors in chains. No one among them spoke so much as a word of greeting to me once I'd emerged from the cage. The silence wore heavy on my shoulders for the duration of our journey through the winding avenues of the city. So many questions I wanted to ask, particularly of the females.

All I received from Briza were sidelong glances at my general physique and conditioning, I incorrectly surmised. For I had no idea at the time that she had been wondering if she could possibly get away with beating me with her snake-headed whip before presenting me to her Matron Mother. I was somewhat surprised (and relieved), therefore, when Matron Malice made that the first order of business when we arrived in the audience chamber.

Briza's confession spoke well of her discipline and obedience. "You resisted the urge to defile our new pet before he could be properly examined," Malice had congratulated on that ill-fated day. "Highly commendable in this case."

* * * * *

The first two years of my servitude was spent in the lowest level of the complex. Training with the weapon master among this rabble was an insult to my sensibilities. But I understood that I was there as the latest addition of slaves, which meant training alongside such common filth as goblins, kobolds and minotaurs. There was, however, a pair of twin driders whom I came to befriend - in the fond memory of one whom I had only recently been imprisoned with in the slave market. Saidon was the male's name; Lethryl was the name of the female. Neither of them professed any knowledge of old Sin'Deth, unfortunately.

Hissyr was the name of House Do'Urden's weapon master, or "the Black Viper," as his enemies had come to know him over the centuries. The aging drow made it clear to us that he was strictly in charge of our collective fate for the next ten years of our worthless lives, and only by passing the many tests he would present to us could any of us hope to advance beyond the lowly ranks of House slaves. I was not made aware that I was going to be trained more intensely than the others, due to Matron Malice's intentions of sending me to the Academy, until the time came to draw swords.

The first sparring session nearly eneded with the tip of a blade buried in my chest. The weapon master of House Do'Urden, it appeared, possessed every bit of the guile, speed and finesse that his street name implied. Yet I still managed to deflect the majority of his initial flurries, taking only a glancing hit now and then, but mostly backing away from the low thrusts that came more often than not. Some time thereafter was when I was taught the double-cross down parry. I immediately went through a few alternatives to the seemingly ordinary move, but never came close to succeeding, except when I executed it as originally instructed.

Aside from those first several sessions, the remainder of my memories of the time I spent in that dungeon arena have become a bit hazy of late. Some of my fellow slaves I recall by name and by deed, but none of them survived the ensuing House wars that are so common in Menzoberranzan. Hissyr Do'Urden prophesied that our House would see perhaps four to five major conflicts with rival Houses before his time was finished. As fate would have it, he was absolutely correct. The highly esteemed (and widely feared) weapon master perished in the thick of our fifth battle, which was just prior to the time when Matron Malice decided I was ready to attend Melee-Magthere at the infamous drow Academy.

On the night before my departure, however, I was tested - not by the priestesses, as I might've expected, but by an enormous arachnid that remained concealed in shadows about the high, domed ceiling. Later, I was informed that this horrid monstrosity was referred to as the Guardian of House Do'Urden. My immediate reaction to it as soon as it dropped from the ceiling and hissed at me was quite naturally violent. Snapping my weapons out of their scabbards, I sliced at the hard black exoskeleton that comprised the spider's body armor. But the scalding hot webbing that spewed from its gigantic mandibles managed to encase my entire lower torso in a solid cocoon.

I recall laughter, wicked and obnoxious, emanating from every female in attendance, including that of the Matron Mother. The rage from of old surged from deep within the core of my being, until I could hear nothing and see nothing, except the enemy before me which had dared to embarrass me so! So blinding were my movements then that I don't even recall exactly what I did. All I can bring back to my mind's eye is the twitching carcass of a legless and profusely bleeding arachnid, after the fact.

And, of course, the deadly silence that ensued.

I had no idea how deeply in trouble I had gotten myself by that single act of self-defense. No one had ever bothered to inform me in advance that it was considered sacrilege by Lloth's priestesses to kill a spider. But the snake-headed whips of four drow females attacking in unison worked wonders in the way of educating me for future reference. Many, including yours truly, have often wondered why I was not sacrificed to Lloth immediately. Indeed, I had thought the priestesses were trying to do just that. But for some reason, Matron Malice demanded that my life be spared. Perhaps it was simply the desperate need for a new premier weapon master, which I was expected to have to fill as soon as I graduated from the Academy.

Malice came to me alone that same night before I was to be sent to the school of fighters. She let herself into my temporary quarters on the main level of the complex, and proceeded to force herself on me. My first instinct was to resist. But the whispered promise of death, so sweet, so insistent and... _seductive_, inspired me to simply lay back and accept what my heart could not.

At least for the time being.


	7. Like My Father Before Me

**Chapter Seven: Like My Father Before Me**

Needless to say, I thoroughly despised the Lloth-inspired dogma that was force-fed to every one of us at the Academy during the initial stages of our training. But I was able to tune out most of what we were taught, refusing to heed the long-winded diatribes in opposition to the "faeries" from the World Above. By that point, I was already painfully aware that no other race was to blame for my people's plight. If anything, these "faeries" were innocent of all charges leveled against them, with the sole exception of self-defense - which was clearly and completely justifiable, I was willing to wager.

Jarlaxle was another factor by which I was able to maintain my sanity. The cagey drow always had some practical joke or dramatic maneuver for the grand tournaments, right up until graduation. His ridiculous antics actually propelled him to the top rank as a warrior once, considering he had even managed to surpass me. No easy task, as I had been bound and determined to outshine my peers every year. My skills were increasing exponentially with each passing day, it seemed. But that one defining moment in history - a day that shall live on in infamy within the vault of my own memories - Jarlaxle outsmarted everyone, setting traps for known duos and trios about the maze of corridors that housed our fighting arena. Dantrag Baenre was there as one of the masters overlooking the competition, I was later informed. He was said to be greatly impressed with what he had witnessed on that day: a time when pure swordsmanship, both traditional and customized, went down the proverbial river without a boat or a paddle to speak of. Treachery and deceipt ruled over discipline and skill.

When at last it came down to just me and him, Jarlaxle had concocted something so clever that I don't care to describe it even in my own journal. The short of it, of course, is that he cheated! No surprise there, really. We both had known from the start that he was no real match for me in honest combat. His response to my accusation? "It is the drow way to achieve victory by any means necessary, my friend. You would do well to learn that, and embrace it heart and soul, if you would survive in the days to come."

I could have killed the fool! Indeed, I started to do precisely that on several occasions thereafter - even as I desperately and repeatedly sought the specter of my father's killer, but to no avail. I saw in Jarlaxle a faint glimmer of hope, however, that perhaps my father and I were not the only drow to hold tenets so dissimilar to the rest our kind as to mark us as rare jewels among a mountainous heap of coal and gravel. Like my father before me, I saw a chance to reveal my true self to another, a chance to enlighten a fellow warrior on the higher callings of society at large. The priestesses were beyond reform, that was a given. Most of the warriors and mages were too ensconced in their submissive roles to even contemplate the blasphemous concept of a revolt.

That meant that perhaps Jarlaxle and I were the only drow in the city to view things from a clear perspective. Only Jarlaxle's philosophy maintained that one must learn to adapt if one wished to survive; that was something I could agree with, but not to the same extent that Jarlaxle seemed married to. He was an opportunist, through and through, no question about it. I suppose I should have left Melee-Magthere and veered from my homeward path, just as Jarlaxle did. He informed that he'd already established a respectable network of rogues prior to his arrival and, by the time graduation rolled around, Bregan D'aerthe was a living, breathing entity all its own.

Jarlaxle was in effect the Patron Father of his own makeshift House, free of the kind of mental slavery that caused my own feet to travel inexorably back toward House Do'Urden and the remainder of my days as Matron Malice's pet weapon master. Perhaps Jarlaxle was correct. Perhaps the better way _was_ the law of adaptation, of independent thought and the ability to lead where others have never before ventured. Perhaps an offspring of mine will some day learn it, and prevail where I have not.

Only the gods knew then what I know now.


	8. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

_Dedication, discipline, sound judgment, strength of character; these are the tools necessary to craft legends. I keep and utilize these tools with greater zeal, perhaps, than I harbor with regards to the twin swords at my sides. Yet I am constantly on the brink of destruction as a creature of the Underdark - particularly among my own people. The females, to be precise, do not favor the kind of ethics to which I cling in my daily life. Still, I hold to faith that my actions and private thoughts will one day be rewarded, perhaps by beings residing in a higher plane of existence: beings with tremendous power curbed by the wisdom of discretion._

_Four long centuries have kissed these bones of mine thus far. I have lost none of my speed and stamina, nor sharpness of concentration. I welcome the challenges, each and every one. The priestesses of Lloth lay claim to a special part of me that I never fail to exhibit when one House moves against my own. For this exceptional service, I am deemed a priceless commodity by Matron Malice. Not so with the other females of the House. Briza Do'Urden is a prime example of one whose head I have come to specialize in decapitating. The brutish high priestess no doubt realizes this with no small measure of resentment. The irony of the situation is not lost on me. For I am, after all, "only male"._

_The battle with House De'Vir, for example, was perhaps the tenth battle that House Do'Urden has waged since my arrival. It occurred only a fortnight ago, when the fires of Narbondel were at their lowest. The whip I now carry in addition to my fine blades has served me very well indeed. For the foul, demon-conjuring tongue of a High Priestess of Lloth is forever silenced! I take great pride in my work, as well as assurance that I am making progress in some small way toward the greater good._

_I say the greater good because I sincerely believe that I am doing my people a favor. By releasing them from the evils of our dark world, even that which resides in their own hearts, I am delivering their immortal souls to a new level of existence, one that is uninhibited by the corrupt doctrines of the wretched Spider Queen. But perhaps I am still being naive in my way of thinking. I prefer to think of it this way, nonetheless. Else I, too, am but a pawn with no power to change things for the better. That is a prospect that I simply cannot live with._

_Jarlaxle has visited me several times since our graduation from the Academy. His generous offer still stands, he says, for me to join him and his mercenary band comprised of houseless rogues. But for the fact that I just learned today that I have sired a second child - a son this time! - I might have taken him up on his offer. He is clever in the extreme, I'll give him that; a survivalist like no other I have ever met. I honestly believe that Jarlaxle could establish himself anywhere, even the surface world, as unpredictable and wide open as that place is. Our first and only raid up there served to open my eyes to the various opportunities I should even now be aspiring to._

_But baby Drizzt has changed my perspective in that regard. He is perhaps the only ray of sunshine in all my years in this underground prison that I am responsible for bringing into being, a crowning achievement that only a dark elf such as myself can fully appreciate._

_So I do this for Drizzt. I will not leave House Do'Urden, as long as I know there is yet hope in a society where such a thing is viewed as senseless and weak. I have faith that my son will find a way to beat them all. For I will teach him my skills, as my father taught me. Most importantly, I will teach him to follow his heart, even if it leads him to places that even Jarlaxle dares not go. Perhaps I will die on the sacrificial altar of Lloth as penalty for my decision._

_Nevertheless, I shall never abandon my legacy. I shall instill what strength I may into my only begotten son, so that one day he may rise up against even the Spider Queen herself if need be, knowing in his heart that he follows a higher calling and a greater destiny than any drow warrior has ever known!_

_--Zaknafein Do'Urden_

* * * * *

Drizzt closed the tome and reverently placed it inside his traveling pack next to his own journal, then strapped it onto his back beneath his forest green cloak. He was just about to blow out the candle on the podium when he suddenly noticed a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye near one of the various bookshelves toward the far right of the antechamber. The ranger gazed in that direction. He wondered if it was only Jarlaxle and Gromph still moving about the place in search of rare artifacts and whatever treasure the fools believed was in here.

That possibility alone kept Drizzt's scimitars tucked in their scabbards. At least for the moment. But no sooner did he step out from behind the podium than he noticed the movement again. It appeared as though a darker shadow detached itself from the surrounding gloom and slithered a bit closer to where Drizzt now stood.

Out snapped the ranger's scimitars in one fluid motion. To his continued amazement, Twinkle did not flare its angry blue light as when enemies approached. He pondered this only for the split-second it took to glance down at the enchanted blade, which turned out to be a split-second too long. For in that same instant, a soft white glow sparked to life in the general vicinity where he had spotted the shadow. In its place stood a semi-corporeal figure from which the light emanated.

Drizzt stared at the creature in stunned silence. His mouth dropped as recognition gradually dawned. "Father?" he whispered at length.

The ghostly figure smiled as its aura strengthened about it, further revealing the proud, angular features of a drow weapon master long deceased. "We meet again, my son," Zaknafein murmured in a voice that sounded like a summer breeze blowing across a fertile valley. As the glow illuminated the entire chamber, Drizzt saw that his father sported a pair of radiant white wings attached to his shoulder blades. He wore a matching white robe with a golden band crossing down from his left shoulder to his right hip, and a sword belt strapped to his waist from which two pommels of some alien alloy protruded from the silvery scabbards. His eyes shone with a golden-red light, complementing the flowing white mane that fell down his back between the neatly folded wings.

Words were difficult to come by at that point. Drizzt tried but failed several times, swallowing hard as he looked on. He simply couldn't believe what he was seeing! It had been centuries since he'd last seen the spirit of Zaknafein, and that had been a special occasion in which the priest, Cadderly Bonaduce, had made a petition to some higher entity in order to bring him back, albeit for a very brief visit indeed.

In comparing the two time frames, Drizzt was at a loss for why he was so favored now. Neither could he understand this transfigured version of that same spirit. His facial expression revealed his confusion.

The spirit smiled again, a sight that slowly became infectious. "I have been... _promoted_, you might say," Zaknafein offered in response to the unspoken question. "It seems that you and I are more akin than either of us ever realized. For a certain deity of yours has chosen me, just as she chose you. This is the reward for remaining true to my own heart while I yet lived."

Drizzt arched a slender white brow at that. "You have met Mielikki?" he rasped.

"I have." The contented spirit surveyed the drow ranger, apparently noticing the straps of Drizzt's traveling pack for the first time. "You have found my journal, I see. Good. I am glad that you believed in the vision I sent you, and that you had the courage to return to your homeland to obtain it. You have done well, my son."

That said, the radiant weapon master extended a glowing hand as he seemed to glide across the stone floor. "Come with me," he resonated. "I will take you to places that no drow has so much as dreamed even exist. The Higher Planes are not for mortals, so you can only skim the atmosphere with me for but a brief time, as mortals reckon, but when I return you to the Material Plane it will have been seven years since your feet were on solid ground.

"But fear not," Zak continued. He nodded and tilted his head to one side as Drizzt clasped his wrist. "I have been granted this visitation with the understanding that there will be many more in the times to come, before you too must cross over and become as I am."

Without another word, the light of Zaknafein's aura exploded into such brilliance as to become all-encompassing. There came a rush of wind over Drizzt's keen ears, and the whispering music of many voices in a strange language that he had never heard before. The light intensified but no longer stung the ranger's eyes. Soon the two of them vanished from the Archives of the Academy, flashing through space and time toward the Great Beyond. Drizzt did not notice, but he too was no longer a physical being. The ties to mortality had been temporarily cut, so that father and son could enjoy the full experience of the glorious vistas of the Higher Planes for the first, but certainly not the last, time.

Together.

**THE END**


End file.
